See If I Can Sleep
by Cris
Summary: Joint project between myself and ANDROGENIUS. Rachel loves to perform, but there's something odd going on at her theater. Then she meets Jesse St. James and her whole world changes. Shades of Spring Awakening. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So here is an updated version of the first chapter of the joint project **androgenius**__ and I have been working on! Yes, that means more is forthcoming, and it also means that CHANGES HAVE BEEN MADE, so you'll want to re-read this chapter. Not many changes, but at least one is pretty key. _

_Once again, I've chosen not to post this as a crossover, though there are "shades of Spring Awakening," as I said in the summary. _

_Content warnings for the story: physical and psychological child abuse, dark themes, foul language from Jesse, and smut in later chapters. There WILL be a happy ending, because neither of us want an angry mob coming after us (although since **androgenius** is in the middle of posting a Jesse death!fic right now, she might not be too averse to the angry mob thing.)_

_All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><em>"Mother, mother, make my bed<br>Make for me a winding sheet.  
>Wrap me up in a cloak of gold<br>See if I can sleep." - Child Ballad 155C_

**See If I Can Sleep**

It's a performance night.

Rachel loves performance nights.

She loves the stage—loves the lights and the hot smell of the colored gels as they bake under the intense glare of the spots. She loves the smooth, almost shiny surface of the actual stage under her feet, and how it sounds when she runs across in either her soft dance flats or something more exciting from Costuming. She is enamored of all the stagehands—even though they are instructed not to speak to her—and how they know their craft so well. She puts herself squarely in their unknown but capable hands during every performance, trusting that the lights will follow her correctly, that they will brighten and dim on cue, that the music and sound effects will go off without a hitch. She knows there's always the possibility of a mistake, but she has never encountered one. Not during a performance, anyway.

But most of all—more than maybe anything else in the world—Rachel loves the crowds. When the spots are directed at her, so bright and hot, she can't see the people watching but she can _feel_ their eyes. Just knowing that they're there is enough to make her heart pound hard against her ribs. So many people—faces she will probably never see again, and if she did, she wouldn't recognize them anyway. But it doesn't matter. _They_ recognize _her_. They come to watch her and, in return, she watches them. There is a little antechamber attached to the backstage maze, and often before a performance Rachel will slip inside. This was a security room before the installation of video cameras; there is a two-way mirror, and Rachel stares at the gathering crowd from the safety of its anonymity. She is wistful when she watches them. She knows she is lucky—Shelby tells her every day. But sometimes she wishes she could be out there, too.

Rachel has never been part of a crowd.

The other girls like to perform, too, but Rachel feels that it isn't the same for them. She can't put her finger on the difference—more a frame of mind than anything they've ever said, she thinks. They see it as work. Rachel sees it as life. Something inside her refuses to believe that rehearsal and tutoring and all of the other things she's forced to do are actually living. Only when she gets on stage is she ever permitted to truly _live_.

That's how it feels, anyway.

Maybe it's different for the other girls, she thinks, because none of them are the triple-threat that she is. Maybe the fact that they all know their places in the troupe has caused them to feel differently about their lot in life? Rachel is the star, and everyone knows this. They don't always like it, but they accept it because Shelby doesn't give them a choice.

Mercedes is a singer, like Rachel. Not as good, but her only real competition—if Shelby stood for competition among her girls, which she doesn't. Mercedes can't act and her body type isn't right to master the classical discipline of true dancing, but she can wiggle suggestively to R&B music and there have been times that that knack has been useful. Quinn's voice isn't good enough to ever solo, but she can at least hold a note as long as it doesn't stray too far into Rachel's soprano register. She is a pretty face and a decent actress, though again, she isn't much when it comes to dancing.

Santana and Brittany go everywhere together—a low alto with an overemotional tie to method acting and their star dancer who can't remember lines longer than three words at a time. Tina can dance, too, and she rounds out the troupe as one of their token minorities. Rachel isn't entirely sure what that phrase means; she understands that Tina is Asian, Mercedes is African-American, Santana is Latina, and she herself is Jewish, but the labels don't explain this term Shelby drops every now and then. She doesn't understand how they can all be in the minority, let alone "token," when the four of them could easily overpower their two blond comrades if they wanted to.

Rachel is the star. She doesn't think she is as pretty as Quinn, but Shelby tells her she is pretty enough. She has long dark hair and big brown eyes with naturally long lashes. The professional photographers Shelby hires always go ga-ga over Rachel's eyes. They like to shoot her very close-up, and they tell her to open her eyes as wide as she can, despite the lights they shine at her so brightly that she wants to squeeze them shut. Sometimes she sees green and pink afterburn for hours after a photoshoot.

She dislikes her nose and thinks her mouth is too big, but Shelby says a woman's lips can never be too full and Rachel is turning into a woman now. She likes the color of her skin—a little lighter than Santana's, but not as pale as Brittany's or Quinn's—and the shape of her body. She's still short and delicate, like she's always been, but her waist has grown smaller and her hips have rounded slightly in the past few years as puberty takes its toll on the little girl she used to be. Her breasts are small, especially compared to some of the other girls, but Shelby says not to fret and so Rachel doesn't. Shelby is all she has. She doesn't know how _not_ to believe her.

And Shelby believes in Rachel. Rachel is her shining star, she says. Rachel has a voice that makes old people and gay men cry the moment she opens her mouth. She has the discipline and grace necessary for the most demanding technical dances, though she's still working on the more contemporary moves that Brittany and Mercedes pull off without a hitch. She acts so well that sometimes she convinces her own self of the truth of her words, though that isn't necessarily saying much. If a dictionary were full of photos like a police lineup, Shelby often says, both Rachel and Brittany could be found under the word "gullible." Rachel thinks Tina sometimes falls under that definition, too, but she never says so around Shelby. Shelby doesn't like it when her girls talk back.

Rachel likes it best when they do plays and musicals with real plots, but for the past month they have been performing a musical revue. She doesn't think she minds—she doesn't know how to mind—but Quinn and Santana are tired of revues. They don't like the constant costume changes, the incessant shifts from one genre to another.

"Don't _touch_ me," Quinn hisses when Mercedes accidentally jostles her in the wings. There is not enough time between numbers to return to their dressing rooms and they are all shedding costumes left and right, dropping the sweaty, creased clothes to the floor. Someone will pick them up later—one of the many stagehands Rachel and the others are not allowed to talk to.

"Don't bitch at me," Mercedes hisses back, and she shoves Quinn on purpose this time. That would be an instant punishment if Shelby saw it. Rachel files the information away in her mind, but she has no immediate plans to tattle. Not unless Mercedes forces her to. No one likes punishment from Shelby. She has a way of fitting the consequences to each girl so precisely, ensuring the most unpleasant results. For Mercedes, who is and always has been chubby, Shelby usually takes away food. Their meals are carefully monitored anyway, but often the workers at the concession stand in the lobby will give them treats if they poke their heads in the kitchen door. They are not permitted to talk to the staff any more than they are the stagehands, but sometimes eyes say more than mouths.

Rachel shrugs into a soft pink calico print dress with long sleeves and a white collar. She turns, and Tina zips up the back for her. She likes how the material swishes against her legs; it's not restrictive or itchy like so many of their costumes. She puts on soft Capezio dance flats and swirls her dress again, just because she likes it so much. The skirt hits her lower calves softly.

Mercedes is also in pink, a shade darker than Rachel, and the rest of the girls hustle into identical dresses in blue. They are supposed to look vaguely like pioneers—like Little House on the Prairie, which Shelby let them read when they were younger. There isn't time to plait their long hair into appropriate braids, and Rachel runs her hands through the silky strands, easing any snarls as she waits to return to the stage. Her hair is pretty curled or straightened, she thinks, but she likes it best like this—a gentle natural wave spilling over her shoulders, so dark brown that it almost looks black until she steps into the spotlights and the bright beams tease hidden glints of color from the locks.

When Mercedes is ready, Rachel takes her hand and they step back onto the stage together. Rachel has always moved faster than Mercedes, but she feels the other girl dig nails into her hand in warning when she inches in front just slightly. Hiding a wince—they're on stage, after all, and they can't look anything but happy—Rachel takes her spot stage left, at the front of the stage, Mercedes beside her. They are using two different microphones—thankfully. Rachel does not like having to share her mics. She doesn't like being breathed on either, even though Mercedes doesn't smell bad. Brittany has horrible breath because she refuses to brush her teeth, but Shelby never makes Rachel duet with her, especially not with the same microphone.

Mercedes' hand is sweaty and Rachel doesn't like it, but she doesn't let go. It's only the tiniest part of the choreography for this song, but Shelby is in the audience and Shelby will know. Shelby doesn't permit mistakes or deliberate changes to her directions, even over something so minor. Even though Mercedes isn't happy that she's closer to the edge of the stage and Rachel is closer to the center, and she's digging her nails into Rachel's hand because of it. Even then. Rachel would rather smile through the sting than risk a punishment from Shelby later.

The other girls slip onto the stage as the music starts, holding small sheaves of wheat. The dance is ballet, though far from technically advanced. They twirl with their bundles of wheat as Rachel begins her verse of the song—"O Shenandoah," an old folk song from the pioneer days. It is wistful and sad, and Rachel loves it. The violins and violas in the orchestra sing with her, and she projects her voice through the microphone just as Shelby has taught her, pushing to make sure she is heard over the instruments. There are techs at the sound board whose job it is to help her, but Shelby always says never to rely on technology to do for her what she should do for herself.

Rachel pushes her voice, strong and loud, yet tender, too. This is a love song. She has never known love—it is a word she reads in books and scripts, a word she sings often enough, but it has little meaning for her. Shelby coaches her on this; how to sound in-love when she doesn't know what it means. Rachel understands happy and sad. She understands wistfulness, and longing, though she could not explain for what. For…something. Something else, something more, though she also believes that there _is_ nothing more. The stage is everything. Her whole life swirls around her, like the long skirt of her costume. It swallows her in this moment, as she sings and the eyes of everyone in the audience are trained on her. She might not understand love, but she can make the audience feel it. When she pitches her voice just right, she _knows_ they feel the things she can't express any other way. For a moment, just a moment as she sings, they are her and she is them. _You know me_, she thinks, _even though you have never seen me up close. I can give you that gift—give you all of me. It's all there in the song._

But soon enough she has to give way to Mercedes' verse, and it's both heartbreaking and a relief when she knows the intense attention is off of her for a moment. She cannot relax, still in the spotlight, but she can breathe slow and deep, staring into the darkness that she knows is filled with people despite the fact that she cannot see them. The lights are too bright, but she doesn't need her eyes to make that connection. All it takes is her voice.

She has tried to explain this connection to the others, but they don't seem to understand. Shelby does, she is certain. Shelby pets her hair and tells her to keep doing it, keep giving everything she can, every time she opens her mouth. When Shelby is proud of Rachel, she touches her cheek and tells her she is beautiful. It's all the affirmation Rachel has ever had. It's the only reward she longs for, not knowing she could want anything else.

As she joins her voice to Mercedes' for the third verse, Rachel has to hide another wince. Mercedes doesn't like sharing the spotlight, and she isn't afraid to let Rachel know it, though she _is_ afraid of Shelby. None of them like sharing the spotlight, really, but they don't dare squabble about it—not where Shelby can hear, anyway. Rachel gets her revenge the only way she knows how. She can't possibly overpower Mercedes' grip with her own smaller hand, so instead she turns on the star power just a little brighter—that little bit Mercedes can't match. She knows she might get in trouble for it later, but she decides she doesn't care. Shelby knows she has trouble dimming the "glow," as she calls it. They've spoken at length about this. Rachel doesn't do well in group numbers because she shines so brightly she eclipses the others. Shelby usually sighs and tugs at Rachel's hair, telling her that she just wasn't meant to be part of a chorus line. But Shelby doesn't accept limitations, and Rachel always has to work on dimming her glow when she performs with the others. This isn't a chorus line situation, though, and Rachel hopes she can get away with pushing herself. It's a good excuse, though she admits that very little gets past Shelby.

The applause at the end of the number is like Rachel's own heartbeat. The staccato percussion rumbling through the audience isn't why she does this—isn't why she loves it—but it's as natural to her now as the sharp notes of Shelby's voice. She bows an instant before Mercedes, nails digging into her hand again, and is sad to leave the stage, even though it means she can finally let go of Mercedes.

* * *

><p>After the performance, the girls spend a little time in their dressing rooms before returning to the loft they share on the single floor above the theater. Half of the ample space on the top floor is their living quarters and the other half is for rehearsals and lessons. There are always rehearsals—sometimes even after a performance if Shelby doesn't think it was good enough. Mostly the lessons are in the performing arts—voice, movement, acting—but they do learn other things as well. Math, reading, history, geography, even a little science. They have a small library of books—textbooks and literature—and they fight over new titles when Shelby occasionally brings them. They are bored, but none of them would ever tell Shelby so. When she gets angry, she yells and hits.<p>

But when she's pleased, sometimes—very seldom, but sometimes—she lets them watch television.

Rachel loves the television. Shelby explains that the people on TV are actors, just like her. Rachel watches them and wonders whether they live at the studio the way she lives at the theater. In books and on TV, people live in houses or apartment buildings. Children have parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins—even friends. Rachel has none of these things. She has Shelby and the other girls in her troupe, who are not her sisters and not her friends.

She's in the bathroom, washing the little crescent-shaped punctures Mercedes has left in her skin, when the heavy industrial door to their living space opens. That door gives the lie to the homey feel of the upper floor, though Rachel doesn't know it. In another hour it will lock, ensuring that Shelby's girls can't leave until the timed lock releases the next morning. Shelby doesn't think they actually would, but it's a precaution. She is a master at taking precautions.

Rachel is the first to greet Shelby, like always. She pops her head around the doorway to their dormitory-style bathroom and smiles big. Shelby likes it when they smile and act nicely. She complains that some of the girls have started getting their teenage attitudes, but she's never scolded Rachel for this. "How'd we do?" Rachel asks, hoping for good news. "I think we did great, except that Mercedes was a half-beat behind during the finale."

"Screw you, skinny bitch," Mercedes snaps, and Shelby closes her eyes. It's an expression they all know well. She's trying to find patience, but if Mercedes pushes much more, there will be consequences. Shelby doesn't like it when they talk like the people who sing modern music. She didn't even let them listen to it until about a year ago, when her male counterpart, Mr. Schuester, convinced her that some more contemporary music and dances would be good for business.

Mr. Schuester is in charge of the boys at the theater. They trade off performance nights with the girls and often come together to perform in a big group because, Shelby says, there are very few scripts for single-sex casts.. But there are always strict rules when Mr. Schuester and the boys are around. They are not really supposed to talk to each other—only to recite lines. They are not supposed to touch, either, except during approved choreography. Shelby says the boys are nearly as off-limits as the stagehands and other staff—nearly as off-limits as the audiences, and the crowds outside the theater that Rachel never sees. Except for trips to the roof for sunshine and exercise, she has never actually been outside.

And, if she is honest with herself, Shelby's rules about the boys are more of a relief than anything. Boys make her nervous. They weren't always bigger and taller than her, but now they are and she doesn't think she likes it. They're almost completely different creatures—broad shoulders and big hands, hair cut short along their necks. Puck, the one with the stripe of hair down the middle of his head, tried to touch her in the darkness of the wings once as she was walking toward her dressing room. She didn't like it, and she told him if he ever tried again, she'd tell Shelby. _That_ stopped him. Even the boys, big as they are, are scared of Shelby.

"Girls," Shelby says now, her voice firm and level, though she's not yet shouting. She tries not to shout; it reduces Brittany and Rachel to tears, and sometimes Tina, too. "Rachel, I've warned you before about tattling. There's no point, anyway; I saw exactly the same performance you did."

Next Shelby turns to Mercedes. "As much as I dislike the tattling, Rachel's right. You need to step up your effort toward the end of the show."

For a moment it looks as if Mercedes is about to argue, and Shelby raises an eyebrow. All of her girls know what that eyebrow means, and they understand the warning. Mercedes heaves a cranky sigh that Shelby almost calls her on, but the girl says nothing more so she lets it slide.

"You all need to work on complacency, too," Shelby warns, just for good measure. This has never been a problem for Rachel or Tina, and Brittany is usually pretty good as well, but Quinn, Santana, and Mercedes all need the reminder. Complacency is the death of show business. If Shelby lets the energy fade, so will the audiences. They come to see her fresh-faced girls dance and sing and act like it's the only thing they ever want to do. Rachel is sure it _is_ the only thing she ever wants to do, but the other girls need to at least look as if they feel the same. She understands Shelby's insistence on this. She understands a lot of what Shelby does, which is why she isn't as afraid of her as some of the others.

"Does that mean another rehearsal tonight?" Mercedes whines and, quick as a flash, before Rachel can brace for the noise, Shelby's hand whips out and connects with the dark cheek, still hot and flushed from being on stage.

"Enough with the whining," Shelby says to the silence. "Or we _will_ have another rehearsal. Is that what you want?"

Nobody speaks. They all know better by now.

"All right, then." Shelby sits in her special armchair, the only padded chair in the room, and she waits for her girls to gather around her. Rachel is the first to approach, alternately nervy and hesitant, like a spooky kitten, and she tucks herself up next to the chair, leaning her head on the armrest, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms holding them close. Shelby drops her hand and strokes the soft, dark hair.

Quinn and Brittany plop to the floor in front of the armchair and Tina and Santana pull up hard chairs. Mercedes slinks closer to the rest of the group but doesn't actually join it—not completely. Shelby lets her sulk, and Rachel knows that if she's still cranky in the morning they will have words, but not right now.

"Tonight's performance was acceptable," Shelby says, continuing to pet Rachel's hair. When Rachel is tractable and sweet—which isn't always—Shelby will often reward her with a tug on her hair or a pat on the cheek. Brittany will also let herself be petted and made much of, but the other girls stopped liking that years ago. Rachel knows that the rest of them fear Shelby's hands, and she understands why. But she is not afraid. She would rather risk being close enough to slap, if it means she might receive a gentler touch, too. "We'll pick up with rehearsal tomorrow."

The girls all look relieved, though they wisely keep quiet. Shelby has been known to change her mind on a whim, especially when her children express an opinion contrary to what she would prefer.

"Tina," Shelby adds, "you're on Mercedes' diet plan for the next two weeks. I've advised the concessions staff not to give you snacks, as well. Don't lie to me—I know they do."

Shelby receives no protest—not that Rachel thought she would. Tina's weight isn't a problem, generally speaking, and Rachel glances at her teammate out of the corner of her eye. Maybe there is a _little_ difference between Tina and the other girls. It's nothing she would have noticed on her own. But Shelby's word is law. Tina does not complain, and no one stands up for her.

It's Shelby's habit to address each of the girls in turn after every performance, and she looks at each pair of eyes watching her, considering who to choose next. Mercedes has already been warned to step up her dancing, and Rachel hopes Shelby has nothing more to say to her. When Shelby gets going, her lists of imperfections can last a long time and it's already nearing eleven o'clock. They all have to be up and ready for rehearsals tomorrow at seven. Between now and then, they have homework to complete and showers to take, tidying to do in their living space, and if they're lucky Shelby will let them into the kitchen for a late-night snack. All but Mercedes, that is—and now Tina.

"Quinn," Shelby says, zeroing in on the blond girl who somehow seems to get more beautiful and more bad-tempered every day. "You have _got_ to get your voice out of the basement. I know you're an alto—I get it. But you've got to work harder on stage to stay in a proper feminine register. You do fine in practice when you know I'm right next to you listening, but on stage you're not trying hard enough. Keep it up and there _will_ be consequences. Brittany and Santana, cool it with the ass-shaking. Don't push me on this one; I know you like the more modern music, but when we're working from the Broadway catalogue it isn't appropriate."

Shelby pauses and tugs on a lock of Rachel's hair. Rachel raises her eyes willingly, her expression guarded. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—Shelby will give praise in these debriefings. Usually when that happens, it goes to Rachel. But Shelby can't praise too much; she knows how it ostracizes Rachel from the rest of the group.

"Rachel," Shelby says, and she shakes her head slowly. "I know you don't do it on purpose, child, but we've got to find a way to keep you out of the spotlight on group numbers."

Shelby is talking about how Rachel turned up the glow during her duet with Mercedes, and Rachel knows it. She thinks Shelby doesn't know she did it on purpose, and she's not about to volunteer the information. Because Shelby is right enough. It's a predicament they've mulled over for several years now as Rachel has grown and matured. She shines on stage, and it's difficult to keep that sparkle dimmed enough to let her participate in group numbers at all. Shelby says she attracts they eye even when she isn't speaking—isn't moving—and Shelby just doesn't know what to do. But how to dim a star just enough so it fits neatly into a chorus line?

"I'll try harder," Rachel promises, but the words, while heartfelt, are empty. She'd become a little mouse if she possibly could, just because Shelby asked her to, but it just isn't feasible. She can't dim her sparkle any more than Quinn can hit an A6.

Shelby waves away Rachel's declaration to try harder; the words have no meaning. Try harder at what? At being something other than herself? She settles deeper into her chair and pats Rachel's head again. "Tomorrow we start something new," she says, using her free hand to smooth a paper in her lap. "I was going to tell you about it in the morning, but you did well enough out there tonight that I think you deserve a treat."

A treat for normal girls would be ice cream or a rented movie, not a briefing about more work. But Rachel's eyes light up and everyone—even Mercedes—scoots a little closer. They are bored with the musical revue, and Shelby knows this. Normally she would scold them for looking so eager to ditch their current project, but for tonight she relents. Rachel doesn't know why, but she's glad of it.

"We're going to be working again with Mr. Schuester and his boys," Shelby says, and she narrows her eyes when everyone but Rachel lights up at the mention of their male counterparts. Rachel understands. She knows they're not allowed to socialize; there's no reason for them to get so excited. But the boys are at least something different—faces they don't see every day.

"That means a play!" Rachel squeals. She can't help it. Working with the boys is okay, but what it really means for her is an actual _play_. Lines—characters—plot—everything she feels is missing when they perform revues. She places her chin on the armrest of Shelby's chair, gazing up at her mentor with her gigantic brown eyes. "Is it a musical? I love when we get to do musicals!"

"It is," Shelby says, and she smiles at Rachel's enthusiasm. It isn't mere relief at the thought of something other than a revue, and the genuine excitement is a welcome change from all the teenage sullenness that has started to run rampant in the theater.

"Tell us the story," Brittany urges. She's never quite outgrown a fondness for being read to, though Shelby never did it often even when they were young.

"It's too complex to explain now," Shelby says instead. "You have work to do tonight. Tomorrow I'll hand out the scripts and we'll go through it with Mr. Schuester and the boys." She pauses. "He has a new member of his team—I know we haven't added anyone to the group since you were all tiny, but his talent is worth it."

"What's his name?" Rachel asks. They aren't allowed to be friends with the boys, but it seems only polite to know their names.

"Jesse," Shelby says, glancing at the paper in her hands. "His name is Jesse St. James."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Next up, we meet Jesse!_

_The Child Ballads are a collection of English and Scottish ballads collected by Francis James Child in the late 19th century. Most originated in the 15th - 17th centuries, and the collection is notable because Child recorded many variants of the same songs. The verse at the beginning is about a murdered child calling his mother to prepare his burial shroud (winding sheet). Cheerful, huh?_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Who missed us? Yes, yes, I know it was an insanely long wait. But we're back now with some Jesse background! **If you have not already done so, go back and reread the first chapter. Some small but significant changes were made to it.**_

_Some background information for this chapter was provided by the PBS miniseries "Circus." **Androgenius** was the one with the great idea, and **Cris** was the research dork. ;-) _

_All standard disclaimers apply_.

* * *

><p><em>"Mother, mother, make my bed<br>Make for me a winding sheet.  
>Wrap me up in a cloak of gold<br>See if I can sleep." —_Child Ballad 155c

**See If I Can Sleep**

"You don't look like a circus freak."

Taking a big bite of his sandwich, Jesse grins cheekily at the girl with all the freckles despite having his mouth full, bits of tuna showing through the gaps in his teeth that give away his precocious, eight-year-old attitude. Growing up without any parents around has its benefits, but good dining manners aren't one of them.

"That's because I'm not," he boasts, a smug expression flitting across his face before anyone can smack it off of him. "But you shouldn't call them freaks. They're talented. More than most people."

"So what do you do, then?" the girl insists, as though she didn't hear a word he just said. Maybe she didn't, but Jesse stays patient, shrugging, pulling a knee up to just under his chin.

"I dance, act, sing. People find me...pleasant to watch. I get to do what I want, and no one tells me what to do or how to do it. They think I'm talented, and I think they're right."

* * *

><p>Humility, tact, bashfulness, hesitancy—these are things Jesse St. James has never in his life been accused of. His father used to try to beat the superiority out of him; it wasn't an appropriate emotion for a dirt-poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. But Jesse had always been confident about his talent and, perhaps more important, his native cheek. Even if his parents couldn't scrape together the funds to send him to a good school, he was happy here at the circus. They didn't have another mouth to feed, nor did they have a son who disappointed them day in, day out. With all of ten dollars in his pocket, he had hitchhiked to the winter quarters of the Adrenaline Circus, climbed the fence, and promptly made himself at home.<p>

With so much activity going on day and night, even in the off-season, and well over a hundred people living and working on the grounds, it was over a month before anyone even questioned his appearance. Jesse still suspects it was one of the other kids who narked on him—the little nine-year-old daughter of the trapeze artists, who was fifth-generation circus blood and took a superior tone with everyone whose families hadn't been performing that long. She bragged that she was training to be a flier like her parents, and when Jesse insisted that he would be in the ring soon, too—just watch anyone try to stop him—well, the next day the ringmaster caught him by the scruff of the neck just as Jesse was leaving the chow truck, fisting his hand in the ragged material of Jesse's t-shirt collar, and hauled him into his office for a chat.

"Who are you?" Peter asked. There were so many children running around the lot—children of performers and other staff—and it was difficult to keep track of them all. "Who do you belong to?"

"My name is Jesse St. James," Jesse said, sticking a plastic spoon full of chili in his mouth, then holding his hand out to the ringmaster. He had lightning reflexes, especially where food was concerned, and had managed not to drop his lunch during the scuffle. "And I don't belong to anybody."

Peter declined to take the boy's grubby hand. "Why are you hanging around my circus's winter quarters?"

"I'm learning," Jesse said calmly around a mouthful of beans and dubious-quality meat.

Peter quirked an eyebrow, intrigued with the fearless kid in front of him. Any normal child of Jesse's size would be quaking in fear at being discovered by an authority figure, but not this one. The boy was absolutely filthy, but there was a charm to him that was undeniable. "I see," he said. "What, exactly, are you learning?"

Jesse crammed another spoonful of chili in his mouth. "Lots," he said, his big blue eyes sparkling, and he launched into detailed accounts of the circus's daily activities—how the animals were to be cared for, and the steps the ring crew took when they set up the trapeze equipment and rigged the high wire, and he even mimicked the furious ranting of their costume designer almost perfectly.

"Fascinating," Peter said, "but _why_?"

"I'm talented," Jesse said calmly, licking his spoon. "I want to be a performer."

"Many people say that," Peter said, though few so young had ever done so to him out of the blue. "What makes you so sure you can handle it?"

The little boy's eyes snapped with the challenge. "Oh, I can handle it."

Peter was never able to explain just why he let the boy stay—it was a gut feeling, an instinct he could not ignore. All of the other children lived in RV's with their parents, but he set Jesse up with the ring crew and roustabouts in the "cells"—the long semi-trucks converted into portable bunkhouses, each worker assigned a cubby-like bed that were stacked three-high. The confines were worse than a jail cell, but Jesse didn't breathe a word of complaint. He had been sleeping under a trailer where two clowns lived, and in his opinion this was definitely a step up in the world.

As a safety precaution, Peter housed the eight-year-old boy with two women as his bunkmates rather than leaving him to the men. After showing him his new quarters, the ringmaster took him back to the chow truck and deposited him in front of the cook.

"I have a new apprentice for you," he said. "Wash him _thoroughly_ before you let him touch anything."

"I don't want to cook!" Jesse shrieked in his shrill little-boy treble. "I want to perform!"

"You show me you can do this _first_," Peter demanded. "And I insist you get your three hours of school in from now on, just like the other kids!"

* * *

><p>"Wouldn't you rather be <em>normal<em>?" The redheaded girl squints, hands on her hips as she leans forward, appraising him judgmentally, like most people do.

Jesse has always felt drawn to a higher calling, like he's special; different. Like he belongs on stage, where people watch him. He's never been part of a crowd, always been much more of a leader than anything else. His parents used to scold him for wanting all that attention, but there came a point when he stopped caring and started embracing his own desire to shine. He was talented. Everyone knew it. He reveled in the way people looked at him, turning their condescension into a game for him.

"No," he grins, snide, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth as he shifts his position on the wood stump. "Normal is boring, like you. And I _hate_ boring."

The ginger-haired girl huffs, stomping off in her Mary Janes to probably find her parents to tell on him. Jesse dangles his feet on his perch, smiling in satisfaction.

* * *

><p>He was not <em>about<em> to spend any more time than necessary laboring under the cook's supervision, so in his free time he started pestering the performers until they agreed to show him the tricks of their crafts. From the clowns he learned timing, and how to read an audience. The tightrope-walker was from Russia, and she was the first to instill in him a love of and appreciation for classical dance.

"Ballet is _life_," she told him once, and Jesse believed her. The grace and power, the utter worship of the human form and what it could do—no other dance could compare. Though he learned the others, too—sexy dancing from the grungy, tattooed sideshow girls, who thought he was a scream, and hip-hop from some of the roustabouts who came from the streets. Many of the performers had background in various other arts—one of the circus band members was a conservatory-trained soprano—and they couldn't believe the fierce drive of the cocky little boy with the curly brown hair. They fed him knowledge and he begged for it like a normal child begged for sweets. He was determined to be the best.

Six months after he was caught, they let Jesse have a spot in the sideshow.

It was hardly a normal circus act, but the crowds went wild for his perfect, angelic little treble voice—a welcome change from the sword-swallowers and fire-eaters of the sideshow. Before long, Jesse found himself under the big top, singing as accompaniment for the acrobats and trick riders. He loved the energy of the audience, loved the feeling of holding a microphone and hearing his own voice bounce back to him through the giant speakers. But...it wasn't enough. He was, like the band members, just an accompanist. He wasn't the main attraction, and it rankled.

His complaints were understandable, Peter told him, but there wasn't much they could do about it. Jesse's talents, while considerable, weren't really circus-act material. He could tumble, but he wasn't an acrobat. He was graceful and balanced, but not a trapeze artist or tightrope-walker. He did not have the right temperament to train animals, and he was far, far too serious to ever be a clown.

* * *

><p>"Broadway, my boy," the costume designer tells him, holding up a yard of bright green satin to see how it goes with the boy's lovely creamy skin tone. "That's where you want to be."<p>

"What's Broadway?" Jesse asks. He's heard of Hollywood. Hollywood sounds pretty good if you ask him, but he's never heard of Broadway.

The man with the pencil moustache feigns shock, grabbing his chest as if wounded. "Shut up," he says, staggering backward exaggeratedly. "Just shut _up_! You mean you've never heard of Broadway?" He launches into a loud, dramatic chorus of _Give My Regards to Broadway_, while Jesse stares at him blankly. "Oh, my dear. My dear, darling, precious child, you come right here and sit down _now_." He orders Jesse into a metal folding chair, and scoots it right up close to the little TV/VCR combo resting on a table in his workroom. "Get ready," he says, dancing a little as he pulls a videotape out of its cardboard case and slides it into the VCR.

For the next two weeks solid, Jesse is hooked. He demands to view everything the costume designer can show him—musicals from the 1940's and 1950's, tapes of every Rodgers & Hammerstein movie that was ever made, even a six-part PBS documentary about the history of Broadway. He's familiar with some of the songs: _There's No Business Like Show Business_, and several tunes from _The Sound of Music_, the iconic title song to _Oklahoma_, and hell, even _Yankee Doodle Dandy_ was from a musical! The world seems to open up before him at the tender age of ten years as he realizes that this, _this_ is what he wants to do with his life. This is what has always been calling him. The theater. The _musical_ theater.

The costume designer thinks he has found a kindred spirit. He can't be happier that the circus's little mascot of a waif has taken so well to the idea of musical theater.

"You know he's gay, right?" the annoying little acrobat girl, a year older than him still and no less irritating, hisses at Jesse one day in the school trailer. "And now you're all acting like buddies? Are you gay, too?"

"No!" Jesse wrinkles his nose and turns away. To him, gay means swishy. It's the funny way the costume designer acts, and his voice that's almost girlish. He has no idea the word might mean anything else.

"Well, you like those singing movies. Everyone knows that's gay."

Right then and there, Jesse decides he's going to change that. If people think musicals are only for gay people, he's going to prove them wrong.

* * *

><p>When Jesse is eleven, the little circus school gets a new teacher. Mr. Foxingham isn't like the bored old lady who used to fall asleep more often than not. He doesn't want to hear from his kids that they don't need an education. He doesn't care that most of them are of circus blood and will follow their parents and grandparents into the ring.<p>

"The circus is a dying business, kiddies," he says, glaring at the annoying little acrobat girl in particular. "Forms of entertainment are born and they die. Vaudeville is gone. Burlesque is gone. Hell, when was the last time any of you played a nice, honest pinball machine?" He eyes the room. "Do you babies even know what pinball is?"

Jesse raises his hand to answer, but Mr. Foxingham ignores him.

"My point, turtledoves, is that you need a backup. You need a real education because there may well come a time that you want it and, if that happens, you'll be fucking sorry you didn't listen to me when you had the chance."

Their new teacher isn't like any other teacher Jesse has ever had. He tells the truth, and he doesn't sugar-coat things. He is coarse, and he swears, but Jesse has been living with roustabouts for several years now, so the foul language is nothing new. His bunkmates—still women—would smack his mouth if they ever heard some of the things Jesse gets away with saying around the men. They like to baby him, and he lets them because it's certainly something his mother never did, and it's a unique experience even though he knows he's getting far too old for it.

But Mr. Foxingham challenges his intelligence, just as the performers and ringmaster have always challenged his talent and his body, and Jesse finds himself rising to the occasion. Suddenly, it's not just theater, music, dance—it's math, science, Latin, history of art—and, most importantly, literature.

As Jesse falls in love with books his performances only improve, becoming more vivid with each word he comes upon in text. When he's not practicing, performing, or learning, he's reading, his schedule suddenly busier than ever before as he fights to absorb everything at once.

Being _the best_ has never felt so important, and though his teachers are strict, above all else, they're fair, and they know when to praise him for the prodigy that he is.

It's not until Jesse turns fourteen that he starts to get it in his head that the establishment he's practically forced himself into by way of charm and luck has been desperately negligent in their teaching.

The words are right there on the page, Jesse's hands trembling as he stares at them, swallowing hard. Finished with his assigned reading for Mr. Foxingham, he'd rummaged in one of his bunkmate's footlockers, looking for a book or magazine he hasn't read yet. What he finds are a stack of tattered paperbacks, the covers all depicting a firm-jawed muscle man holding or kissing or pursuing a scantily-dressed woman. Mr. Foxingham supplies him with Dickens, Voltaire, Greek translations. The most sexually explicit material he's ever come across is the rape trial in _To Kill a Mockingbird—_a book he savored, loving the simple, poetic narrative—and this sort of book is entirely new to him.

Jesse reads, uncertain whether to devour the words more quickly in effort to get the information in faster, or to slow down, savor each one, try to study it, learn precisely what is making him feel the way he's feeling now, biting his lip to keep the blood from pooling low in his abdomen, making him twitch in his pants even as he swallows.

The woman in the novel is an actress, something Jesse can relate to entirely too well. The difference is that she's trying to make ends meet, making up for lack of funds by taking on a position as a courtesan. The word itself means nothing to Jesse, not until the story continues, and he devours the words with a voracity that surprises even him.

Excitement peaking in the story, it quickly becomes evident that the man she loves-another concept Jesse knows nothing about, his only love for the spotlight-is just as penniless as she is, can't even afford a night with her.

So she gives herself to him, first kissing, slow, desperate, longing—seen, imagined, not understood—Jesse swallowing hard as their kissing reaches a frenzied peak, faster, needier, _harder_.

He's seen people kiss, but never anything like this; not the way the words on the page are describing it, not at all.

Turning the page with trembling fingers, Jesse feels himself tent harder against his pants, shifting his position against his bunk just slightly in effort to escape the discomfort of the feeling. Straining, wanting. He's never felt so _alive_.

He doesn't understand, but he _wants_ to.

Bodies, naked, touching, mention of the swell of a woman's breast, the way she feels in his hands, the arch of her back to get more of the man's hand against her private areas, his fingers ghosting down her front to feel that she's wet through her underwear.

Jesse wishes, briefly, that there were illustrations, needing to know what this looks like more intimately, needing to know what he's missing out on. But there's nothing, and all he can do is groan as he palms himself through his pants, rough, closing his eyes for a moment at how _good_ that feels before snapping them open again the next, desperate not to lose his place.

Two fingers inside of her, gentle, careful, then more frenzied; the woman moans, and Jesse feels himself sweating as his eyes fight not to lose focus in their desperate attempt to drink in everything at once, alive with learning, _feeling_.

When the man replaces his fingers inside the woman with his hardness instead, the final cog falls into place, his hand slipping into his pants to wrap around himself, jerking roughly, once, twice—_feels so good_-wondering for a hot second whether it feels this good for the woman, the thought cut off only when he comes, limbs trembling viciously as he fights to get his breathing back under control, his vision back into focus.

Does being intimate with a woman feel better than this? Even this is almost too much; he can hardly imagine it feeling _better_.

Jesse is fairly certain that if love is a physical thing, something you're supposed to _feel_, then maybe, maybe, this is it.

* * *

><p>The next two years are fraught with practice, practice, and more practice, though Jesse always manages to find the time to himself to read, learn, educate himself on the things the adults around him wouldn't. It's a lot easier to focus after masturbating, and Jesse has come to see it as a blessing instead of the curse that some of the books he's read try to make it out to be, most of them religious, <em>pious<em>. It's a word many of the circus folk laugh at. They live their lives outside the boundaries of normalcy, outside the law of what is right and wrong. Jesse was quick to learn that the strange bumping noises he heard through his cell's thin walls late at night, and the stifled moans and hisses and caught breaths, were really evidence of sex. It was going on all around him—all the adults, all the time—and he'd never known. Never realized.

He wonders what it would be like to do it, to touch a girl or woman _like that_, to know what she looks like under her clothes. He sees them in tight leotards and revealing costumes all the time, but it isn't the same. He has no clue what's lurking under the fabric, only that the thought of it tempts him. Still, he doesn't really make any attempts. The older women are like aunts and mothers to him, and would probably laugh and call him cute if he tried to flirt. The younger girls are just that—little girls, far _too_ young. There really isn't anyone around his age, except the annoying trapeze girl—yep, still annoying—and he isn't about to even think about that. That's more than he's prepared to face, even for the thought of answering his questions.

He knows most of the ring crew, especially the men, have pornography hidden away, but even though he is sixteen now—_fully_ mature enough to handle such things, he thinks—they won't share, and they take great pains to keep their footlockers locked at all times once they know he's curious. They think it's funny. He's their mascot—the little lost waif they took in all those years ago—and they don't want to think about him growing up.

One day, after the show is over, Jesse sees Peter the ringmaster talking to what looks like an audience member who has lingered behind. This is not so unusual, so Jesse makes a note of the man—tight, curly hair, a cleft chin and pleasing smile—and attempts to pass them, wondering if he could sneak a snack from the cook before dinner. Peter's low voice, obviously not wanting to be overheard, stops him, and he slips behind a pile of props, hunkering down and preparing to eavesdrop on the conversation. Eight years have not changed this much—he still learns a great deal by being in the right place at the right time and keeping his ears open.

"He's a good lad, you know." Peter's voice is warm and amused, and Jesse instantly knows they are talking about him. "Very talented. Gifted, even. It's like he was born for this. We've been...very lucky to find such a prodigy. Perfect pitch. He'll pick up an instrument and be able to play it with ease within a week. He's...hardly perfect, of course, seeing as sheet music is something with which he still struggles, but he's very talented. I'd be sorry to see him go, but, well. If there's anyone that could benefit from formal training...let's just say I think it would be worthwhile to your venture. We're happy to have him, naturally, but I've always known we wouldn't be able to keep him long. He's not a clown, after all."

None of this is really a surprise to Jesse. He knows as well as Peter does that the circus won't be his permanent home. He's been grateful, of course, for the training he's received. And when he's not being taught, Jesse practices, whether privately or through performance. He knows that not everyone is as lucky as he's been, but then again, he's willing to put in considerable effort.

Shifting in his crouch, Jesse frowns, trying to figure out what Peter's saying, what's happening, trying to listen in as intently as he possibly can manage, catching the tail end of the response from the curly-haired man.

"Well, Shelby is certainly interested, yes. I have my reservations. We've never taken in a boy so old, and the rest of our troupe is set in their ways."

"I think you and Ms. Corcoran will find, Mr. Schuester, that Jesse St. James is a fast learner. I can't say he's eager to please—he's far too self-assured for that—but he's eager to excel, which is a quality that will serve him much better in his life."

"Shelby is _extremely_ strict with the troupe," Mr. Schuester says, and Jesse strains to hear as several grooms lead a group of horses past. "She insists on discipline. Can he handle that sort of life? The others are used to it. They don't know any different. I've no doubt he's talented, and we could benefit from that just as he can benefit from our training. I'm just worried about the transition. You're rather like gypsies, and he's used to a very nomadic lifestyle."

"Nomadic, yes," Peter says, "but by no means undisciplined. He lives in a little cubby, eats mass-produced slop morning, noon, and night, and divides his time between honing his mind and honing his skill. He has discipline, Mr. Schuester. Don't doubt that."

Jesse feels warmed by his ringmaster's praise, but at the same time he's a little irked by Mr. Schuester's continued questions. He was disciplined! He was studious and focused, and when he set a goal, he damn well _reached_ it. If this guy was going to doubt that about him, Jesse wasn't at all sure he wanted to agree to whatever they were planning. At least at the Adrenaline Circus, they trusted him. They knew what he was capable of, and they respected him for it.

But then Mr. Schuester says the only words that could ever change his mind.

"Still, a wandering, gypsy life is very different from New York. Very different from one theater—one building on Broadway."

_Broadway_. Theater—real theater. _Musical_ theater, maybe, even. For the chance to go to that Mecca of performing arts, Jesse would do anything. Agree to anything. He wants to rush the men now, jump up from his hiding spot and tell them he's in. Just barely, he resists. He wants to know what else they might say.

"Shelby and I will have to talk about this again before we make a final offer," Mr. Schuester says, sighing slightly. "She's the boss, though, and she wants him, so you might want to prepare him. If you think he'll come."

"He needs more than we can give him here," the ringmaster says, opening his arms to gesture at the big top and the small armada of semis and trailers sprawled behind it. "We're just a circus, sir, and Jesse's ready for the big leagues."

* * *

><p>"I spoke to a Shelby Corcoran the other day," he's told two days later, Jesse leaning back in the seat, arm splayed out over the top, the other propped up to support his chin as he regards Peter quietly in silent question, just as precocious and cocky at sixteen as he was at eight.<p>

"She'd like you to join her troupe." Jesse cocks an eyebrow. "She's the best in the country. You'd be surrounded by young protégés. She knows how talented you are. You'd be at the top in seconds, there to showcase your skills in front of audiences much larger than what we can offer here, Jesse. She's...really very good, from what I hear. Tough, but good."

"I can do tough."

"I know that. I would never have spoken to her about this arrangement if I hadn't thought that you were capable of being her student."

"I'm not a student anymore, I'm a _performer_."

"You'll be a student for the rest of your life," his ringmaster reminds him, and he huffs, shrugging. "If you're willing to relocate and join them, it would be a marvelous opportunity for you. She won't pay you, but then, neither do we. It will be a very similar arrangement—room and board, all the training you can handle. According to her associate, Mr. Schuester, maybe even more than you can handle."

Jesse grins. They haven't _invented_ the sort of training he can't handle. "I'm in."

* * *

><p>"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea. He's...not like the others; he's been allowed freedoms that the others haven't been, exposed to things they...definitely haven't. And he's older. Two years older. I don't think it's safe."<p>

"He's talented," Shelby responds coolly, throwing Will a glare, as though he should know her methods by now. "And if you kept a stronger hand on your boys, this wouldn't be a problem. Rachel needs a good male lead to sing with. Finn can't keep up with her for much longer at the rate she's improving. She deserves someone who can match her completely, where she doesn't have to try to dim down her shine just because the others just aren't good enough. I would know how unfair that is to ask of Rachel. I keep telling her to fix it and blend in more, but it's the others that need to step up their game. And Jesse might just be good enough to match that. I'm not losing that opportunity just because _you_ can't control your group."

"They're _boys_! Aren't your girls even _curious_? Don't they ask questions? Because even if they're not brave enough to ask, I can see it in their eyes, Shelby. I know they're thinking it. And I think _you_ know that, too. We can't hide them away from the world forever."

"If we don't teach them, they won't know. It's as simple as that. I refuse to have this kind of talk in this theater. They're not learning about this. I'm _not_ going to sit here and let you give them ideas to ruin their future."

Will takes a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper, lips pressing together into a thin line of irritation as he crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. "I think you're making a big mistake, Shelby. These kids' bodies don't run on your clock. You can't just expect them to adjust to your needs. They're going to start getting curious. They're going to start touching themselves. And that is something _you're_ going to have to adjust to."

"I just want them to stay children for a little longer," Shelby sighs, smoothing down the front of her pants as she shakes her head, standing. "That shouldn't be too much to ask." With a stern sigh, she stops with the hand on her door, shoulders tense. "Have Jesse introduced and prepared for our first rehearsal. We'll start in an hour."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Next up: the first meeting! Leave us some love (or tell us we're crazy, that works too). ;-)_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><strong>See If I Can Sleep<strong>

Shelby Corcoran is the best at what she does, and she knows this.

She was a good performer in her youth and, now that youth is past, she has formulated a strategy to keep her on top, no matter what. So many young actors fail to continue on, fail to maintain a foothold in the business once the first blush of youth has passed, but Shelby is no idiot and never has been. She saw early on that the best way to stay relevant in show business is behind the scenes, not in the spotlight. Producing, directing—manipulating from the shadows, stealing the glory only now and then for the odd interview with a trade publication. So during her twenties, those years filled with struggle and success on the stage, she watched, and listened, and learned. By the time she was ready to set up her own company, she had more than enough know-how to get the job done and get it right. Her salary, scrimped and saved from her time on the stage, plus her inheritance from a wealthy but distant father, were more than enough to buy the decrepit old theater right at the heart of Broadway before Disney moved into the neighborhood and prices skyrocketed. She had the place gutted and meticulously remodeled to her exacting specifications, drawing up the design for the children's living quarters herself. The plan had been hatched years before, when she'd seen how fat the pockets of "doting" stage parents became at their children's expense.

Shelby herself had not been a working child. She would have been happy to perform, of course, she tells herself. She would have _killed_ for the kind of opportunity she's giving her girls. But no, her parents had sent her to school instead, like a regular kid. Only after turning eighteen had she been able to realize her dream, running to Broadway as soon as she could to escape the stifling atmosphere of her parents' expectations.

And now she has it all. A luxurious apartment in an upscale neighborhood. Eighty percent ownership of the Queen Theater—the other twenty percent belongs to her business partner, Mr. Schuester, but she's in the process of buying him out and his twenty-percent stake hardly matters anyway—and, most importantly, a group of kids who are turning her investment into a cash cow. While theater as a business usually runs on tight budgets and investors often never see returns, Shelby Corcoran does not work this way. She made sure from the start that her venture would be profitable. Largely by not paying her performers, but she considers this only fair. She's housed, fed, and trained them since they were tiny—babies, in more than one case. Surely that adds up to a fundamental right on her part to decide what they do, when they do it, and what sort of reimbursement they receive? Of course it does.

She's had this planned out for years. Unwanted children are easy to come by, if one knows where to look. At one point she had upwards of twenty each, and a couple of supervising nannies who did not speak English and knew better than to ask questions. Eventually she weeded out the talentless ones until she now has what she thinks is a perfect number for the first try—six girls and six boys. Seven including Jesse St. James, which Shelby should really start doing since he's here now. Will Schuester's contention that Jesse's involvement in the troupe is not a good idea...well, Shelby can understand his reasoning. She really can. But he doesn't understand how malleable young people are, or how desperate a talented kid can be to get noticed. So what if Jesse's older? He's sixteen; what's sixteen? Still young, still stupid and naive. He'll have the rules down in no time. He'll understand that she is to be obeyed or he won't like the consequences, just like the rest of them.

A soft knock on her office door brings Shelby out of her musings, and she looks up to see Will Schuester enter with some paperwork in his hands. He sets it on her desk with a sigh. He's not pleased—she knows that unhappy face. His mouth is set in a thin, straight line, because he won't actually frown in front of her, and his brow is crinkled as if he's ten years older than she knows is true. "Here's Jesse's paperwork," he says, avoiding her eyes. "I talked to him, and to the ringmaster at the Adrenaline Circus. He doesn't have a social security card, and he doesn't know his number."

"All the better," Shelby says calmly, looking over the contract Jesse has signed. None of the others have contracts. There's no point—they can't leave, and they wouldn't dream of telling her no. Not really. Once they become adults, she'll have to put them under contract. She plans to lease them out to other productions—their paychecks going directly to Shelby's pocket, of course—while they continue to live at her theater, eventually helping to train a new batch of babies to replace them at the Queen. Giving them that sort of freedom will, of course, require legally binding contractual agreements, but for now, the children are fine as they are.

Jesse is old enough that she requires some protection, though, and she's glad he seems eager for the opportunity. Young idiot probably didn't even read the fine print, she thinks. Finding him at the circus when she was not prepared for it...it was like kismet. Fate. She's clearly _meant_ to mold this boy into the perfect foil for Rachel. His voice is strong and clear, so goddamned beautiful, and he has a sort of angelic quality to his features that the audiences will eat up. She could see arrogance dripping off of him too, from the little smirk he held all through his performance to the set of his shoulders and jaunty angle of his hips as he stood. That touch of bad-boy grit will lend power to his art once he's properly trained. He'll be everything Rachel needs, everything Shelby had hoped Finn would be, but the potential she saw in him as a young child never developed, like a dud egg that never hatches. Well, no more. Rachel will have what she deserves, and Shelby will have a male star to equal her female star.

"All the better?" Will questions, and Shelby shoots him an irritated glance.

"Yes," she says peevishly. "You _know_ the others don't have social security numbers either. Only Rachel. You _know_ that makes everything easier. It means nobody's missing them. Nobody will ever ask questions about where these kids came from, because nobody's looking."

Will's mouth shifts into a thinner line. Shelby knows he does not entirely agree with what they're doing, but he's in far too deep to try to dig himself out now, and he knows this. They both do.

"I can't keep him chained up under the same rules as the others," Will says softly. "I can't. He's used to a certain amount of freedom, and I can't in all conscience take that away."

Shelby waves her hand. "Do what you want with his free time; I really don't care. You're in charge of the boys, you know that. I _know_ you coddle them more than I do my girls. When have I ever taken you to task for it?" She shakes her head. "I'm in charge of my girls, and I'm in charge of the theater—practices, rehearsals, and performances. Those are my domain. As long as he behaves when I'm around, I don't care what you do."

It's true, too. Shelby lets Will give the boys a little more freedom, but she does it for a reason. She knows the boys know that the girls have it so much harder, and they live in fear that their little freedoms will be taken away at any moment. It's better behavioral reinforcement than she could ever have devised on her own.

Because, really, that's what all this is about. Shelby doesn't think of herself as cruel, or mean, or any of the other words a normal child might throw at her, and she's worked hard to make sure her girls don't think so, either. Of course they don't. Everything she does is for a reason—control, perfection, and profit, most of the time. She punishes to maintain control and obedience, and to reinforce lessons, just like a parent or a teacher.

"What do you think of his talent?" Shelby asks, flipping through the other papers. There's a written statement from the circus's ringmaster attesting to Jesse's training since he was eight years old, and that no one has ever come looking for the boy. His medical records from the circus's nurse, assuring the boy's health. Nothing out of the ordinary—a couple of broken bones from a rowdy childhood, all of which healed well.

Will shifts restlessly. "You know I think he's talented. I saw the same performance you did."

"You think all your boys are talented," Shelby argues with a negligent wave of her hand. Will has never been the impartial judge that she is. He can be firm when necessary, when she makes him, but he cares a little too much about some things Shelby knows don't really matter—hurt feelings, jealousy. She doesn't stand for it.

"They are," Will argues now, showing her exactly what's wrong with him. Why she'll always be the boss and he'll always be her employee. She'd be more than willing to take on a full partner in this endeavor if she ever finds one with the right mentality. Will Schuester is the closest she's come, and even so, he's sorely lacking. "Just because they're not all the serious triple-threats that Rachel is doesn't mean—"

"They're good enough that I kept them," Shelby says, which is the most she'll allow. "They're good enough that audiences keep coming, that other productions will want them when they're older. But none of them, not even your precious Finn, is good enough for Rachel."

"You sound like a matchmaker," Will mutters, and Shelby raises a dangerous eyebrow.

"Do not mock me," she says tightly. "They don't know what love is, because nobody's ever told them. They're fine the way they are. He's her equal in talent, and that's what she needs. That's _all_ she needs."

* * *

><p>Jesse's in awe.<p>

The theater is huge—room for plenty more people than the big top ever could hold, even though it was never filled to capacity. There's a grandeur and grace to the place—cherubs hiding in the molding, lovely old art deco decor painstakingly restored to its former brilliance. He touches the red velvet seat cushions, runs his hand over the wrought-iron that holds the cushions in place.

Jesse has already met the boys who will be his castmates while he is here, and he's not overly impressed. Some are talented—the one they call Blaine, and the little boy who _screams_ gay, Kurt—but none are better than he is. He goes over the names and faces again in his mind, just to solidify the associations, though he trusts his memory. The pouty-faced blond boy, Sam, seems like a potential ally—not too hung up on jealousy, understanding his own place in the hierarchy. The muscly guy with the mohawk also seems like he could be useful, or at least not antagonistic. The leggy Asian dancer, Mike, was too quiet during their brief introduction for Jesse to get a real feel for him. The two potential problems he can see so far are the bitchy little Kurt and the freakishly tall Finn. Kurt's still singing in a register Jesse hasn't touched since he turned twelve, and he's obviously used to getting plenty of attention for it. But Finn…the beanpole refused to say anything to him when they were introduced and Jesse can't figure out why.

"He'll get over it."

Jesse turns to see Sam stepping through a doorway behind him. He cracks a small smile—small but wide, considering the dimensions of his mouth—and swipes some light hair out of his eyes.

"Finn?" Jesse guesses. "What's his deal?"

"He's the male lead," Sam says. "Or used to be, before you showed up. Everyone knows why you're here."

"Why am I here?" Jesse already thinks he knows, but he wants the other boy to say it. Having his talent confirmed by someone else is never a bad thing.

"For Rachel."

Jesse blinks. This is _not_ the answer he expects. "Who's Rachel?" he asks, pulling at an errant curl. His hair's getting long. He meant to ask the cook to cut it for him before he left, but it's too late now.

"She's the best," Sam says, grinning a little wider now. "She used to always sing with Finn, sometimes with Blaine. But Shelby threw a fit a while ago, said that Finn would never be able to keep up with her. Now you're here. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why."

A challenge? Jesse feels a slow smile begin to steal over his mouth. No wonder the tall dude doesn't like him. But Finn's temper tantrum about Jesse's appearance means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Jesse's more concerned with Rachel. So he's been brought here as a match for their female star? His smile widens. The idea…it's perfect.

"What's she like?" he asks Sam as the other boys begin to trickle into the theater, hovering in the space before the orchestra pit.

"She's just a _girl_," Sam says, shrugging in dismissal. "What is there to tell? But boy, can she sing. She's Shelby's little pet, and it kind of sucks. Nobody else gets praise from Shelby like she does."

So that's how it is? They're jealous; they don't like her. Jesse feels an instant pang of kinship with this girl, a girl he's yet to meet. He knows what it feels like to be ostracized for your talent. He knows all too well.

"A word of advice," the mohawk—Puck—warns. "Don't touch them. Try not to talk to them. It pisses Shelby off, and you do _not_ want to do that."

"Let him find out the hard way, just like everyone else," Finn snipes, settling in an audience seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

Jesse's met some frightening women in his time—a tightrope walker who was capable of putting even the burliest roustabouts in their place jumps immediately to mind—but he's never seen this sort of wary, grudging deference before. It's decidedly odd. Still, he doesn't immediately question it. Not yet. He has patience and cunning. He can wait to see what Shelby's like with his own eyes.

He doesn't have to wait long. The girls enter the stage from the wings a few minutes later, all in a group. They hover together tightly, watching the boys a little mistrustfully, and they don't relax until Mr. Schuester steps on stage with a pile of scripts.

"Boys, up here please," Mr. Schuester says, motioning them to climb the stairs. "Shelby will be here any minute." He doesn't hand out the books, instead setting them on the seat of a folding chair. "Vocal warmups. Jesse, just follow along as best you can."

The boys climb to the stage, but they do not go near the group of girls. Mr. Schuester stands at a battered upright piano stage right and he hits a note to begin the warmup. This is old hat to Jesse, who has been singing professionally since he was eight, and he chimes in without a qualm. As he warms up his voice, he scrutinizes the girls. They're still huddled in a bunch and their individual voices are difficult to discern, especially with the other boys standing much closer to him. He sees a chubby African-American girl, two willowy blondes, an Asian girl who almost seems to hunch into herself as if she's shy—and what on earth, he wonders, is a shy person doing in a place like this? Then there's two dark-haired girls, one taller than the other, but it's the shorter one who catches his attention.

She's…beautiful doesn't really seem to cover it. It's not like she's this perfect porcelain doll, this delicate and dreamy thing. If anything, taken separately, her features are far from ideal. Her nose is big, her mouth a little too full and a little too wide, and she has several visible moles on her face and throat. But the net result is…stunning. Unimaginably intriguing. She has the biggest, sweetest brown eyes he's ever seen in his life, and the warm flush of her skin makes his hand itch to touch, despite the fact that he's _never_ had this reaction to a girl before, and despite Puck's earlier warning that this is expressly forbidden. There's a curious way she holds her mouth, almost as if a question sits perpetually on the tip of her tongue, halted just at the moment it might be voiced. He's reminded suddenly, inexplicably, of Barrie's description of Mrs. Darling from _Peter Pan_, and how there's a kiss hovering always on her lips, one her husband and children can never quite catch.

This is Rachel. He doesn't need to hear her sing, doesn't need her voice pulled out from the mass of others in order to understand. She's such a little thing, but she catches and holds the eye like a sparkling gem. Some of the other girls might be called prettier from a casual glance, but on further inspection, this is the only one that could possibly be the star.

She's fascinating. He can see the flash of her throat as she breathes, how her chest expands and contracts with exacting precision, her formal training in breath and voice painfully obvious. She probably has excellent core muscles, he thinks. Of course, if she's been training most of her life, she really ought to by now. Oh, this is a curious feeling. It's not at all like when he used to read his bunkmate's trashy romance novels, before she locked them up where he couldn't get at them. It's warm like that. Fluttery. But so, so different. His chest aches; it almost _hurts_. Why, he doesn't know. It makes absolutely no sense.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, her eyes flick sideways and meet his. She's halfway across the big stage—it might as well be an acre or a mile as far as Jesse's concerned. But the space almost seems to melt when her eyes lock with his. It's like electricity, prickly and hot, and he doesn't know what to think. She's beautiful. So incredibly beautiful, and she's looking at him. She doesn't drop her eyes and she doesn't blush red from her hairline to her chin, but two pink spots appear just on the tops of her cheeks, warming her already warm skin tone.

That's all it takes.

He doesn't notice Shelby at first—not until warmup ends and she steps further out onto the stage, arms crossed over her chest. She's watching everyone, her eyes flitting from one young face to another, and Jesse watches her back, not dropping his eyes when hers find him across the stage. She's talking, but Jesse's barely listening. He's very used to tuning other people out when he doesn't want to listen, and right now he's not interested in anything Shelby has to say. He's far, far too busy staring at Rachel.

She's watching him, too, flicking those huge expressive eyes back and forth between him and their director, the warm pink spots on her cheeks not disappearing. Jesse wonders if she knows who he is, and why the other boys say he's here. He wonders if it's true—if he _has_ been brought her as a match for this curious, intriguing little girl. The stage lights shine on her dark hair as she moves slightly, teasing hidden glints of color from the strands like sequins on an acrobat's costume. Jesse can't resist—at a moment he knows she's watching, he flashes her a killer smile—the devastating smirk that audiences have never been able to resist.

* * *

><p>He's beautiful.<p>

Rachel is wary, keeping close to the other girls despite the fact that she knows the boys won't do anything to her. He's a new face, a stranger, something she has hardly ever encountered in her young life. She's not sure what to think, and she has no idea what to call this feeling churning in her stomach. Jesse St. James is all smooth, milky skin and messy curls, and there's a hint of a smile lurking always at the corner of his soft pink lips. They almost look like a girl's lips, she thinks. Finn doesn't have lips like that.

He's too far away for her to tell what color his eyes are, but it hardly matters. She can't stop staring at them, regardless. He's…she can't explain it. Realistically, she tries to tell herself, he's no different than the other boys. He's not as tall as Finn, not as bulky as Puck, not as girlish as Kurt. Lithe muscle, probably a good mover. This is nothing new to her—she and the rest of the children have been taught and trained and honed since they were young. It's the chubby people and the disabled ones who look strange to her. She watches them in the audience, from her spot behind the two-way mirror, wide-eyed and wondering at all the different shapes and sizes of the human body.

But Jesse—there's something about the way he moves, something that draws her eye and demands her attention. He's not even really in motion—a brush of a hand through his curls, a shift of weight from one foot to another. His chest expands perfectly as he breathes and sings, his shoulders not rising at all, and his black t-shirt is fitted enough that she can almost see his diaphragm constrict as he pushes air from his lungs in a smooth, controlled note. She's done this long enough that she can tell he's extremely well trained. His voice is still a mystery, swallowed in the general noise of twelve other voices warming up, but she trusts that it's good. Shelby would never let anyone into this theater whose voice wasn't good.

Just as she thinks this, his eyes shift. Suddenly they're staring at each other, and the touch of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth grows bigger, as if daring her to look away.

Rachel doesn't. She's not sure why, but she's never been able to resist a dare like this. She holds his eyes, feeling warmth steal into her cheeks and trickle down her spine, bleeding into her belly. He's staring at her like Santana stares at homework assignments, as if she's a thing to be deciphered, puzzled out, and ultimately understood. No one has ever looked at her like this before. Is she really so confusing? Rachel thinks she's a fairly simple girl. What on earth could make him stare so long and so hard?

When Shelby steps out onto the stage, Rachel blinks and turns away. For her, the moment is lost. Shelby requires their complete attention, and if she doesn't have it bad things happen. She shudders and presses up against Tina, arm to arm, as if she's cold. She isn't, but Tina doesn't move away and Rachel is glad.

"Good morning," Shelby says, and Rachel opens her mouth to answer, the entire group chorusing their director's words back to her. She gets upset if they don't, or if she thinks they're not upbeat enough. "We're all together again today. Aren't we excited?"

Nobody answers, but it looks like Shelby doesn't expect it. She moves to the wooden chair where Schue set down a pile of scripts, and she stands behind it. In the pause before Shelby speaks again, Rachel can _feel_ that Jesse's looking at her still. She shifts nervously, flicking her eyes to him without realizing it, then studiously turning them back to Shelby once she discovers her error. But his gaze burns, lifting the delicate little hairs on the back of her neck, and she feels restless and uncomfortable. Why is he watching her? She's not performing. There's no reason for it.

Of their own volition, her eyes sneak back to him. Yes, he's still watching her with that strange expression on his face. This time, when he sees that she's looking, his eyes sparkle wickedly and he smiles. But it's not just any smile—it's the most beautiful, terrifying thing she's ever seen. Bright and sweet, flashing a glimpse of very white, slightly crooked teeth. The slight imperfection only enhances his charm, and she has no idea why. But there's something else, a kind of teasing confidence, lurking in his grin, almost as if he's daring her to do something, though she can't imagine what.

"I know you're all excited to hear about this new project," Shelby says, and Rachel takes a deep breath. No matter what, Jesse St. James can't mess with her focus. Shelby doesn't allow that. She takes several steps forward, her knees just a touch shaky as she leaves the huddle of girls, and sits down near Shelby's chair. The other girls follow suit, slowly sinking down around her, and after a moment the boys do too, staying several steps away.

"I had originally planned our next production to be the Colette classic _Gigi_," Shelby says, though Rachel has no idea what this means. "Upon further reflection, I decided that we should embark on a more group-focused production at the moment, since we have a new castmember with us." Her eyes flick to Jesse, and Rachel hopes that means it's now okay to look at him. Everyone else seems to be, so she swivels her head around, too. He's smiling sweetly, nothing like the daring smirk he threw her way just a moment ago, and he seems not at all phased by the attention. "We'll let you get your sea legs, as it were, on a role not quite so stringent." Shelby pauses. "I know we haven't added a new member to our troupe in a long time—not since you all were very young. But I want you to make Jesse feel at home here. He has a great deal of talent, and he's going to help our productions become even better than they already are."

Rachel can see a flicker of irritation pass over Finn's face, and she feels badly for him. He's usually been her male partner when such a thing is necessary, battling over the right with Blaine and usually winning, though Rachel actually prefers Blaine's voice and his smaller hands. She's never felt entirely confident dancing with Finn—probably because he's dropped her so many times. Eventually Shelby had to suspend his more technically advanced ballet training, because Rachel kept flinching in his grasp, bracing for the inevitable fall. It was impossible to dance correctly that way; a dancer has to be able to trust her partner completely, and Rachel just can't. For once, Shelby didn't blame her for her failure, insisting that the cessation of those practices was due to Finn's incompetence, not hers.

"This production will be unique for another reason, too," Shelby says, and Rachel snaps her head back around quickly, hoping her director hasn't noticed her inattention. "Mr. Schuester and I will be performing with you this time."

There's a wondering murmur from the assembled children—this has never happened before. Schue will occasionally join the boys on their performance nights if the fancy takes him, but though Shelby leads and pushes them through practices and rehearsals, she's _never_ been in a production before.

"It seemed only fair," Shelby says, choosing to ignore the whispers, "since we're giving Jesse a break. Don't you want to know what the production is?"

"Yes, please," Rachel says, hoping this is a question she's meant to answer.

Shelby smiles—that's apparently a yes. "The Sound of Music."

Rachel's heart begins to pound. They've performed songs from this musical in revues before, but never the entire show. Shelby let them watch the movie several times—it's Brittany's very favorite—and the exhilaration of now embarking on this process makes Rachel flush with happiness. She doesn't care what role she gets—even if it's the youngest Von Trapp child, little Gretl. She's just happy to be involved.

Brittany seems to think the same. She squeals and leaps up, throwing her arms around Shelby and squeezing hard. It's something no one else in the world but she and Rachel would do, and the other girls stiffen as if bracing for a punishment.

But Shelby merely laughs, stroking Brittany's blond head and urging her back down. "Calm down," she says, "calm down. A production of this size means a lot of hard work in our future. We'll start just as soon as I announce the cast list."

As Brittany settles back to the ground, Rachel tenses. Casting is never a pleasant process, because someone's feelings are invariably hurt. Usually it's not her, but when she gets a favorable role the other girls definitely do their best to let her know they're not happy.

"Mr. Schuester and I will be playing Captain Von Trapp and Maria, of course," Shelby says. She hands him a script from the pile on the chair, and he accepts it without a word. There's a stiffness to him, Rachel thinks, that's not entirely normal. Maybe he slept wrong the night before? Shelby glances out over the seated children. "When you hear your name, please come up and get your script. Rachel—Liesl."

"That's not fair!"

It's Quinn. Rachel freezes, not daring to move even to follow Shelby's orders. Her face goes white and her eyes widen, and she doesn't know what to do. She exchanges a worried stare with Tina as the stage goes silent.

"Care to run that by me again?" Shelby asks, her face blank, her tone expressionless. The girls are never happy when Rachel gets choice roles, but rarely do they ever express it in front of their director.

"It's not fair," Quinn repeats. "She always gets the good parts. What is she, your real kid or something? She's the smallest; she should play Gretl."

There's a dangerous silence, and Rachel wonders if anyone else can hear how loud her heart's beating. It's an accusation the girls have leveled at her before—that she looks a little like Shelby and so maybe the preferential treatment isn't because she's talented. Rachel knows it isn't true—Shelby has always explained to her that she's the best, and that's something the others will have to get used to. It doesn't make the hateful words any easier to take.

When Shelby's response comes, there's no attempt at explanation or rebuke. "Box," she orders. "Now. I will come get you later."

Quinn has never submitted well to this type of punishment. She's not terribly good at following orders. But this time she stands slowly, her eyes showing rebellion, and slowly heads for the stairs leading off the stage.

"Rachel," Shelby says, "come get your script."

Rachel stands, her knees a little shaky, and she doesn't look up at Shelby when she reaches for her script. Shelby touches her cheek gently, as if in reassurance, but her hand is cold.

"Blaine—Friedrich. Tina—Marta and Sister Sophia. Kurt—Kurt. Santana—the Baroness and Sister Bernice. Quinn—Louisa and Sister Margaretta. Brittany—Gretl. Mercedes—Brigitta and Sister Berthe. Puck—Max Detweiler. Finn—Franz the butler. Sam—Herr Zeller. Rachel, Quinn rattled me so I forgot to mention that you'll also be playing the Mother Abbess. Mike—Frau Schmidt. And last but not least, Jesse, you'll be playing Rolf."

They hustle for their scripts, both Kurt and Brittany grinning madly, as they've been given their favorite parts. Rachel feels a little numb, and not just from Quinn's outburst. She's playing two big roles, but their troupe is small enough that doubling up is not unusual. What she can't quite wrap her head around is Jesse. Specifically _her_ and Jesse. She's been cast in a romantic role alongside him, and her heart doesn't want to settle down in her chest as she fiddles nervously with the corner of her script. She's had to dance and sing love songs before with both Blaine and Finn, but this is someone new. Someone she's never met before. And he's…Jesse.

"Um…Shelby?"

It's Mike, and his voice is soft and hesitant as he looks at their director.

"Yes, I know," Shelby says, waving away his question before he even asks it. "You'll be cross-dressing. It can't be helped; we had one more male cast member than we needed, and one female part we couldn't fill. You've done it before. You'll survive."

He seems less than thrilled, and Rachel can't blame him, but he doesn't fight Shelby—not that she thought he would. He's not like Quinn or Mercedes. She actually feels fairly safe around Mike, more than some of the other boys. He won't touch her unless ordered to. He doesn't even look at her. She likes that he's a little shy; it's a refreshing change from all the competitive jealousy that runs rampant in the girls' wing.

"But, Shelby," she says, hoping she can get away with the question without getting slapped. "The children and the nuns are in some scenes together."

"Do you think so little of me that I wouldn't have thought of that?" Shelby snaps, raising her eyebrow in that dangerous arch that means trouble. "Really, Rachel?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel whispers. She hates the scolding almost more than something physical. It hurts, twisting something inside her.

"I've taken care of it already; we're making some small changes to the script. Don't worry your heads about things like that. That's my job."

Rachel knows this. She does. She drops her head, knowing she should have kept her mouth shut. Sometimes things just bubble out of her, though, and she has no idea that she's even talking until it happens. These are the times she's most likely to get in trouble, when she acts before thinking. Biting back a soft sigh in case Shelby's still listening, she glances away.

Her eyes meet Jesse's. He's still looking at her. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to get used to that.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, there are a number of ND characters we did not use, yes, the most obvious being Artie. If you want a rundown of why, PM Cris. Also, the "box" punishment will be explained in a later chapter. Inspiration (if you can call it that?) came from a line in Shirley Temple's autobiography._

_Leave us some love!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Yes, yes, I'm/we're still here. This is my Glee fic that seems least popular, but (sorry guys!) it's the one I'm most interested in at the moment. _

* * *

><p><strong>See If I Can Sleep<strong>

"He's _beautiful_," Brittany gushes late that night as they sit on the ends of their mattresses to do Shelby's required slow stretches before bed. Sometimes it hurts so much it's nearly impossible to comply, especially if they've had a long day of grueling dance practice and then spend the evening cold, sitting still and studying. But they've done very little except recite lines today, and everyone is limber as they stretch forward, laying their heads gracefully on their knees and grabbing their feet for a long, slow count to twenty.

"He's _hot_," Santana corrects. It's a word they've learned from Mr. Schuester's modern music and, as such, not one they particularly want to voice around Shelby. But their director has gone home by now—she doesn't linger on non-performance nights—and they feel fairly safe to talk freely. "Girls are beautiful. Jesse St. James is something else entirely."

Rachel secretly agrees with both of them, though she doesn't volunteer her opinion. She's a little uncomfortable with talk of Jesse, though she doesn't really know why. Talking about the other boys doesn't make her feel like this at all.

The girls' sleeping room is much smaller than their study and practice space, and it consists of scuffed, bare wooden floors strewn with mattresses, one for each girl. In the corner there's a big dresser, and they each have a couple of blankets and a pillow. These pillows and blankets have never been replaced—Rachel has had the same mustard-yellow cotton covers and limp white pillow for as long as she can remember.

They move almost in unison, releasing the stretch and hooking one leg over the other, twisting slowly to the side. Mercedes' spine pops several times. Quinn is quiet, as they always are after a quick trip to the box. She is not resigned—the hard look on her face tells them that much—but she isn't yelling anymore. Shelby went to fetch her after about ten minutes, and that was all it took to make Quinn behave.

Rachel thinks about Jesse St. James. He is going to be her Rolf. She knows this story—knows she is going to have to dance with him, maybe even kiss him. She's never kissed anyone but Shelby before. And it's no guarantee, she tries to tell herself. Shelby has cut kisses from scripts before, because she claimed they weren't appropriate. Whether she'll do it this time or not, Rachel doesn't know. It's almost impossible to guess Shelby's actions unless you make her angry.

What will it feel like, she wonders, to touch him? To dance with him? She's only ever danced with Finn and Blaine. Finn is too big and he frightens her. He's awkward, and gawky, and he's dropped her more than once. She's always nervous when he puts his big hands on her waist, or hoists her by the arm or leg. She knows how to position herself to make things as easy as possible for her partner, especially during lifts. Shelby has taught her well. She needs to suck in her belly, giving them a nice divot under her ribs to put their hands. Then she needs to help with the lift, jumping a little at just the right moment, lending momentum to help him complete the movement. A lift isn't about a man doing all the work—not even close. It's a partnership, Shelby has explained over and over again. But a partnership requires trust, and she just can't trust Finn enough to give him the help he needs—to put herself wholly in his hands, to make that perfect, exquisite leap of faith.

Jesse is a stranger. Rachel bites her lip, chewing on the tender flesh. Shelby seems to think that it isn't Rachel's fault that she can't relax around Finn, but Rachel isn't so sure. And if she can't make that leap of faith with Finn, whom she's known as long as she can remember (though not well), how in the world is she supposed to make it with Jesse? She doesn't even know him. All she knows is his name, and that his smile does something uncomfortable to her insides, making her feel like they've turned to warm goo. She wonders if any of the other girls saw that smile—the smile he gave her when he caught her watching him during vocal warm-ups. He _did_ give that smile just to her; she knows it. How, she's not sure, but it's true nonetheless. That smile—that frightening, beautiful, know-it-all smile—was given just to her. No one else.

"I'm going to be your baby sister," Brittany laughs, and she jumps from her mattress to land on Rachel's lap. Santana scowls, but Rachel doesn't mind. Brittany is too excited about their new project to even notice. "It'll be just like real life. Shelby will be our nanny, and you'll be, like, the next in line."

"Governess," Rachel corrects, always a stickler for details.

"What's the difference?" Tina wonders, chewing idly on a fingernail. It's not a usual habit for her, but she's been doing it all day as if it's a subconscious reaction to having her diet restricted. Shelby has slapped her hand away from her mouth more than once, but it hasn't made a bit of difference yet.

The girls look at each other in silence. None of them know.

"Is a nanny for babies and a governess for bigger kids?" Brittany asks hesitantly.

Santana and Quinn both shrug, no longer interested in the conversation.

"I'm hungry," Mercedes whines. This is not unusual. Rachel is too, actually, but she knows better than to say anything. Shelby isn't around, but the behavior is instinctual by now.

"I wonder if Shelby will make you pick me up," Brittany says, laying her head in Rachel's lap. The girls have abandoned their stretches by now, and Rachel wiggles slightly until the hard pressure of Brittany's skull is no longer digging into her muscle. "They do in the movie."

"She'd drop you," Santana snickers.

"She's the smallest," Quinn mutters, and it's clear she's still unhappy about the casting decisions even though she's no longer fighting Shelby's edict. "It doesn't make sense for her to be the oldest. If she tried to pick you up, the audience would laugh their asses off at us."

_Ass_ is not a word they are supposed to say. Shelby says it sometimes, but she swears she'll smack the behind of any girl who utters it. Rachel slipped up once. It's not an experience she wants to repeat.

"You just want a chance to dance with Jesse," Mercedes says, and Quinn scowls so furiously that Rachel knows it's probably at least somewhat true. The other girls are jealous because she gets to play the Von Trapp child with the biggest part, but they are also jealous because she will be spending time with Jesse. Jesse is new, and he's beautiful. Put the two together and it's a recipe for envy.

"Shelby won't let her kiss him, though," Santana says with more assurance than Rachel thinks is really necessary. "You know she won't."

"We're getting older," Tina says. "Maybe she will."

"Do you want to kiss him, Rachel?" Brittany asks, shifting so she's looking up at her dark-haired troupe-member. Her eyes are big and blue, and there's not a hint of jealousy in them, only a vaguely childlike sort of curiosity.

It's a good question. Does she? Rachel doesn't know. Boys make her nervous. She doesn't really understand why anyone would _want_ to touch or kiss one. Her contact with them has only ever been directed, tightly choreographed, and watched over by Shelby's strict eye. She doesn't want to dance with Finn, but that's because she knows he'll drop her, or stumble, or do something else equally unpleasant. Blaine is nicer, but he's always a little hesitant when they dance, as if he's cowed by either her or Shelby's no-touching rule, and he's afraid to hold on too tightly, or too long. It makes Rachel think he doesn't like her, and though she knows it's probably just fear, she still doesn't like it.

Jesse is an entirely different situation. And they're not asking about dancing. They're asking about kissing.

What would it be like to kiss someone—anyone? Rachel doesn't know. She raises her hand to touch her own lips with her fingertips. They're soft, warm. She wonders if a boy's lips would be as soft, if they would feel exactly the same, or different? Or maybe it depends on the boy? Finn's lips are thinner than Jesse's, not as full or pink. They _look_ like they would feel different. But how can she know? She has absolutely no experience to relate it to.

"Brit," Santana says, a hint of fond exasperation in her voice, "come here."

Brittany raises her head from Rachel's lap and scuttles over to Santana's mattress.

"If you really want to know what it feels like to kiss someone," she says, "I'll kiss you."

"Okay," Brittany agrees, and she puckers her mouth up in imitation of the way Shelby does when she wants them to kiss her on the cheek.

Except Santana doesn't aim for Brittany's cheek. She puts her fingers on Brittany's lips, almost the same way Rachel has just touched her own. The silly pucker smooths out, but before Brittany can ask a question, Santana replaces her fingertips with her mouth and kisses her softly.

It's sweet, quick and gentle, and Rachel considers as she watches them. It doesn't _look_ unpleasant. But, then, Brittany and Santana are best friends. They're like each other's twin, or shadow; where one goes, the other follows. They've been inseparable since they were very small.

And, most importantly, they're _girls_. Since one of them isn't a boy, it doesn't seem quite the same.

"That's nice," Brittany says, her voice slow and considering, as if she's replaying the kiss in her head, trying to decide if she likes it, and how much.

"Want another?"

Santana leans toward her, but before she even gets close to Brittany's mouth, Quinn clears her throat loudly. "Do it again and I'll tell Shelby," she says.

It's a worrying threat. Shelby hasn't specifically told them they can't kiss each other—the issue has never before come up—but it's something Rachel is willing to bet Shelby won't like. There are _many_ things Shelby does not like.

"Why?" Brittany asks, cocking her head to the side. "Are you jealous? I'll kiss you, if you really want."

Quinn wrinkles her dainty little nose. "No, thank you," she says. "Your breath stinks. Santana must be used to it by now, but I'm sure not."

Rachel hides a smile. Brittany's breath _does_ smell, largely because she brushes her teeth maybe once a week. She claims she forgets, and it's probably true. Shelby says sometimes that Brittany would forget her head if it wasn't fastened on.

When Shelby first said that, years ago, Rachel puzzled for days over the odd words. That was before Shelby had explained, with short, irritated words, about figures of speech and common sayings. It's a funny way of saying Brittany is forgetful, nothing more. Rachel's not at all sure she understands the humor, even now, but if Shelby says it's funny, it must be true.

Brittany sticks her tongue out at Quinn, who shoots her a disgusted look before rolling up in her blanket and turning away, clearly finished with the conversation.

"Maybe she only wants to kiss a boy," Tina mumbles through her incessant nail biting.

It's what Rachel wonders, too. Whether it feels different, not just lip to lip but on the inside—being so close to a boy, something Shelby does not allow. Rachel has trust issues, though she does not know this. How can she? This life, this theater, is all she's ever known.

"Do you really think she might let you kiss him, Rachel?" Brittany asks, half curious, half wistful. "On stage? For real?"

Rachel shrugs. It's impossible to tell with Shelby. The only thing she's sure of is this: her first kiss, whenever it comes, will happen on stage and it will be Shelby's to decide and control. Not hers. In a way, it makes things easier, she supposes. Shelby will take care of her. Shelby always takes care of all of them.

* * *

><p>The next morning she looks for Jesse in the group of boys as they file out onto the stage. He's there, in a ratty black t-shirt and sweatpants. He wears his clothes better than Rachel thinks she's worn anything in her life. The self-assured way he raises his head, back straight, chin out, catches attention—<em>demands<em> it, even. His curls of brown hair, lighter than hers, look silky-smooth under the house lights. Brittany nudges her and puckers her lips teasingly when she catches Rachel looking at Jesse, but Santana yanks on her arm and makes her stop as the tell-tale tap of Shelby's heels echoes through the wings. A moment later she appears, snaps at Mr. Schuester to hurry up with vocal warmups, and just like that, the day has started.

It's a confusing whirlwind, beginning with the nuns and Maria at the abbey. Santana is the worst nun _ever_, shimmying provocatively every time Shelby's back is turned. Rachel isn't entirely sure what a nun is—she knows they wear funny black clothes and live all together in a place called an abbey, and apparently it's hard to become one because Maria fails. Maybe Rachel and the rest of the girls at the theater are a kind of nun, too? They all live together, and Shelby is like the Reverend Mother.

"Rachel!" Shelby snaps her fingers several times in Rachel's face. "Care to rejoin the rest of us? You know wandering attention during rehearsals is not acceptable."

"I'm sorry," Rachel breathes, just thankful that the snapping fingers wasn't a slap. "I just - "

"Just what?" Shelby sounds impatient, but that's normal. "If you have a question, ask it. If not, let us get on with our rehearsal."

"What is a nun, anyway?" Rachel finally asks. It's not a question related to acting technique, and she's not sure Shelby will be happy about that. All the boys are watching from the sides of the stage, and the theater is suddenly silent.

Shelby's eyes drift over Rachel, falling to the cluster of other girls also waiting to hear what her answer will be. Her mouth quirks oddly, as if in triumph, though Rachel can't imagine why. "Nuns," Shelby says slowly, "are women who have pledged their lives to a cause. They choose to give up family ties and the promise of a normal life for the sake of what they believe."

"So they're like us, then," Tina says, echoing Rachel's thoughts from a moment ago.

"Very like," Shelby agrees, that strange smile never leaving her lips.

But now, Rachel isn't so sure. _I never chose_, she thinks silently. _None of us did_.

Right now, it doesn't really matter. Shelby is done discussing exactly what a nun is, and she's ready to begin the scene where Maria asks forgiveness of the Reverend Mother and is told she must leave the abbey for a while to think on whether this life really is for her. Perhaps even more than the thought of dancing with Jesse, this scene has been worrying Rachel. She's not at all sure she can handle being Reverend Mother to Shelby's Maria. The power dynamic is not right at all, though this is not a term she's familiar with. All Rachel knows is that everything feels very wrong the moment Shelby grasps her hand and kneels, however briefly, at her feet.

She can't stop herself from shaking, a fine tremble radiating from her spine out to her limbs, and she swallows hard against a suddenly dry throat as she sees the top of Shelby's head for what is perhaps the very first time.

"Come here, my child," she manages to squeak out, though her mouth feels like sandpaper. Shelby's eyes flash a warning, though it's out of character for Maria to rebuke the Mother Abbess.

"Oh, Reverend Mother, I'm so sorry," Shelby gushes. Something deep in Rachel's insides twists and grates uncomfortably. It's literally painful, having Shelby at her feet. She takes a breath, trying to wet her dry lips. She knows her line, but she can't say it. It isn't her place to bestow forgiveness upon Shelby for a perceived wrong. Maybe one of the other girls might find it funny to have their roles switched, but for Rachel it is anything but.

Shelby's face melts into impatience, and Rachel's heart begins to pound. She'll be in trouble in another instant if she can't force the words out.

But her body just won't let her. They can give her all the lectures they want about staying in character, but she can't make herself pretend, even for a moment, that she is Shelby's better. A strange, tight noise of protest echoes in her throat, and it's all the sound she can make.

It's a simple line—just a few words. _I haven't summoned you here for apologies._ But Rachel cannot say it. Her lower lip trembles, and she feels the bitter sting of tears against her eyes. This is doubly troublesome—Shelby _hates_ tears unless a script calls for them. She has no patience for inconveniently-timed emotions.

"Broom," Shelby finally snaps. "Now."

There's no chance to explain—not that Rachel would have tried. Shelby does not want explanations. She wants results. With an inward quiver, Rachel moves to the edge of the stage where a broomstick waits on the ground. Without further prompting, she kneels on the hard pole and laces her hands together behind her back.

"Take over," Shelby says, waving a negligent hand at Mr. Schuester.

Already the pain is intense. Rachel hates this—after only a few minutes, it can feel like knives are stabbing up through her bones. She won't be able to dance properly for the rest of the day, and it's only mid-morning. Quinn levels her with a satisfied little smirk that Shelby either does not see or chooses to ignore as Rachel struggles to keep her back straight and posture perfect.

"You know I hate punishing you," Shelby says. "You're my little diva, and it reflects poorly on me when you don't meet my expectations."

"I'm sorry," Rachel whispers. She hates the scolding, but it's difficult to pay attention through the pain beginning to throb in her knees. Shelby tries to make the punishment fit the girl, like taking food away from Mercedes or separating Brittany and Santana, but to hurt Rachel in a deeply personal way would hurt the theater. The only thing that is dear to Rachel's heart is the performance, and Shelby will not deny her that. Pain, then, is as great a motivator as any.

"_I haven't summoned you here for apologies_," Shelby intones. "Repeat it!"

"I haven't summoned you here for apologies." The words are easy now, as Rachel kneels and Shelby looms large over her. They are just words, just sounds, nothing more. The impossible context of bestowing forgiveness upon her director faded once Shelby stood, and now they are back to normal. Though the punishment hurts, it's also…almost soothing, in a way. The world has righted itself. Shelby is Shelby, Rachel is Rachel.

"Again," Shelby snaps.

"I haven't summoned you here for apologies." Her knees hurt. Her thighs hurt. She is young and strong, her body flexible and supple, but she has never figured out how to bear this familiar punishment. In the back of her mind she can dimly hear the other girls begin a first run-through of "Maria." Mr. Schuester orders the boys to sing, too, to give them something to do. Shelby never likes anyone to be idle.

"Again."

"I haven't summoned you here for apologies." Oh, it hurts. When her muscles are sore from a long workout or her feet feel like they can't stand one more minute on pointe, Rachel has learned to relax into the pain. To accept it—not to fight it. Relaxing and giving herself over to the hurt makes it easier to push through it, to give Shelby what she demands. But this—it feels like her kneecaps are breaking apart, the joint forcibly pulled asunder by the weight of her body pressing down. Her concentration and therefore her balance are thrown off, and she wobbles.

"Hands behind your head," Shelby orders. "Again."

Rachel feels the first tear spill over as she forces the words from her mouth, willing her voice not to break. She laces her fingers together behind her head, elbows out to the sides like wings.

"Stay there until I come to get you. Don't you dare move."

Shelby turns away, taking over from Mr. Schuester and telling him to run his boys through a rehearsal of their revue while she continues instructing the girls on their song. The theater is still open for nighttime performances while they rehearse for Sound of Music, and tonight the boys are up.

Rachel is supposed to stare straight ahead, but her eyes sneak to the side to watch the boys, attempting to block out at least some of the pain by distraction. Jesse won't know the choreography, though he might be familiar with the music. When will Shelby expect him to begin performing with the boys? Surely not tonight. Will she wait until Sound of Music is ready? Rolf is a good part, but not a big one. Is she giving him time to find his footing before making his debut? It's impossible to tell; they've never had a newcomer before.

Whether Shelby expects him to participate or not becomes a moot point when the boys launch into their first song. It's the opening number to Newsies. Rachel is unfamiliar with the story, but they have practiced some of the music. This song is familiar enough to her. It obviously isn't to Jesse, as he keeps his mouth shut, but he throws himself into the choreography with a will, watching the boys around him and mimicking their movements only a breath behind. By the third time through, he's got it down and has also started to sing. Shelby will like this, Rachel thinks. She likes it when her kids take the initiative…as long as it's not _too_ much.

It's over an hour later when Shelby finally strolls close to Rachel. She's shaking by this point, her arms numb, and the only way she can keep her hands locked behind her head is to tangle her fingers through her hair and pull. Shelby stands beside her for a long time, not looking at her, not acknowledging her in any way. Rachel tries not to get her hopes up. Shelby has been known to walk away before in moments just like this, crushing the hopes of the one being punished.

"I haven't summoned you here for apologies," Shelby says, still refusing to look at Rachel.

"I…haven't s-summoned you here for ap-pologies," Rachel stutters, biting down on the inside of her cheek to force the words out.

Quick as a flash, Shelby leans over and delivers a sharp smack to Rachel's rear. The sting hurts, but it isn't as bad as the disruption of her balance. She heaves forward, struggling not to faceplant on the floor, her fingers too tangled in her hair to leave her head and help her.

"Again," is all Shelby says as Rachel fights her way back upright. "And I don't want to hear any stuttering. Don't make me stop practice for a lesson in enunciation."

"I haven't summoned you here for apologies." The words are quivery and rushed, but it's all Rachel can produce at this point. Her body is on the verge of breakdown. Cold sweat slinks down her back from her struggles to remain perfectly still.

Shelby is silent for a long moment. Rachel hears her own heart thudding painfully against her ribs. It hurts—everything hurts. Even blinking her eyes seems to send an echo of pain shooting through her body.

Finally Shelby speaks the word Rachel has been waiting to hear. "Sit."

She collapses sideways instantly, fighting her hands out of her hair to grab at her red, throbbing knees. They're swollen and dark, her circulation impaired by the broom. Tears continue to stain her cheeks, but she doesn't cry out. Her knees won't unbend just yet, and Shelby knows she won't be able to stand for a while. So she lets her sit, bent legs off to one side, arms propping her body up. The feeling of blood rushing back into her forearms and fingers is followed by the unwelcome pins-and-needles of returned sensation.

"Rachel," Shelby says, and her voice is softer now as she stands over her. Rachel basks in the sound. It is all the comfort she's ever known. "You know I don't like to punish you. But you will never forget that line again, will you?"

Rachel shakes her head. She wants to tell Shelby that she hadn't forgotten the line, but she keeps quiet. Excuses will only earn her another punishment. What she's really afraid of is the next time they rehearse that scene. Will she freeze again? Punishment can't and hasn't taken away the inherent wrongness of the situation, Shelby kneeling before her, asking for forgiveness. Will Rachel ever be able to accept this, to see past her director's face and fall into the role thrust upon her? She doesn't know, and that worries her.

"Stretch your legs out," Shelby says. She straightens her shoulders. "When you can walk again, you may rejoin the group."

* * *

><p>Schuester warned him. Jesse can't say that he wasn't warned, but he honestly didn't believe Shelby's standards could be so high until he saw her order Rachel to kneel on a broomstick, drilling the flubbed line into her head and then leaving to let her think about her mistake. Jesse has no idea what kneeling on a broom feels like; he's never done it before. Punishment at the Adrenaline Circus consists of cleaning elephant stalls or sweeping up after patrons. Occasionally the ringmaster or other adult would slap him upside the head when he got too mouthy or insolent, but this sort of calculated pain for a seemingly minor infraction is new to him.<p>

He watches her surreptitiously, stealing glances every now and then. During rehearsal all of his attention should be focused on learning choreography that the other boys already know. Some of the songs he's familiar with, others not. The entire experience is exhilarating—exciting. To think, he's finally where he always wanted to be. Broadway. He's getting the chance to prove himself, to show that he's just as talented as any of the kids raised here. _More_ talented, even.

But through the rush of adrenaline, a hesitant, nagging doubt will not leave him alone. When they pause between songs to hear Schuester's feedback, his eyes stray to the girl kneeling silently in the corner of the stage. She's obviously hurting. Tears glitter on her cheeks, and as time progresses her whole body begins to tremble. But she does not utter a word, and she does not drop her arms or collapse. Her face is drawn into an expression he instantly recognizes in spite of the fact that he does not know her at all. She is determined—resolute. She will not back down from this task, painful and unfair though it is.

It's this look on her face that lets Jesse know he's going to like this girl. He recognizes it because he's _worn_ it many times himself. Her delicate jaw is squared, her mouth set in a firm red line, and her dark eyes snap with resolve even as they leak tears. She's strong, this girl. A fighter, just like him. Jesse wonders what her story is—why she's here. The boys are not forthcoming with information about this place, and Jesse isn't sure what to make of the uncomfortable silence that often follows his questions. He gets the feeling that they have been together for a very long time, but just how long is hard to say. Maybe Rachel left a bad home, like he did. That look on her face makes him believe she certainly has the personality for it. Maybe Shelby saved her? Took her in, like he was taken in by the circus. That could explain the silent devotion, the way the girl puts up with unnecessarily harsh treatment.

He's relieved when Shelby finally lets her sit, and he watches as she massages her bare knees, working obviously stiff legs until they are able to unbend. Her poor knees are deep red and badly swollen, and he can't imagine how they must feel. Far before it seems advisable, she forces herself to her feet. Her knees buckle and try to fold, but she stays upright through what looks like sheer force of will.

"Don't stare," Sam hisses in his ear. "Shelby will skin you alive if she catches you."

But it's impossible to ignore the girl for long. Even wobbling along the edge of the stage on unsteady legs, there's an innate air of grace that hovers around her. Her complexion is ashen under the natural tan of her skin. He finds, oddly, that he's unnaturally impatient for the chance to work with her. Their big scene together and duet of "Sixteen Going On Seventeen" is the one he's most looking forward to.

They break for lunch soon after, heading back to their living quarters for sandwiches and sides of carrots and celery. Both Puck and Mike have been slapped by Shelby for mistakes, and she gives Finn the stink eye every time she sees him. That in itself is reason enough for Jesse to respect her.

"You did exceptionally well this morning," Schuester tells Jesse. Finn glances their way with a sullen stare, but he says nothing.

"I enjoyed it," Jesse says honestly because, really, he has. The only damper on his mood is thinking of Rachel and her ordeal with Shelby. But it's really none of his business, he supposes, and he's glad at least to have seen firsthand the truth of Schuester's warnings. Now he knows just how volatile Shelby can be, and he understands a little more what's expected of him. Obviously Shelby's expectations of Rachel are higher than her expectations of Finn. He fumbled no lines today, but his dancing's barely passable. Jesse has a feeling he'll be held to Rachel's standard, if not higher, before long.

"We'll see how much you enjoy it the first time Shelby lights into you," Kurt says darkly.

"She won't." Jesse settles back in his chair, meeting the younger boy's eyes unflinchingly. "I don't make mistakes." It's wildly cocky and not _strictly_ true, but he's a little irritated with Kurt's attitude.

Kurt doesn't rise to the bait, instead shrugging as if to say _you'll see_, and Jesse chooses to let it go. It's too soon in his tenure here to start alienating people. "Well, I did enjoy it," he says instead, turning back to Schuester. "When can I go on stage with you?"

"Not during this revue, I'm afraid," Schuester says, smiling sympathetically. "I know you're eager to prove yourself, but Shelby won't put anyone in front of an audience until she's sure you're ready. For you, that means Sound of Music."

"Rolf is a test," Jesse guesses, and he knows he's right when Schuester's mouth quirks.

"You're quick," he acknowledges. "Yes. Shelby wants to start out with a reasonable goal before pushing you too hard."

It makes sense. Rolf is a good role, and Jesse's glad to have it. But he's not a character with much stage time. It's a perfect middling test to see where he stands—and also not a bad way to test him alongside Rachel.

The thought of her sends Jesse right back where he was before, his mind's eye full of those sparkling, dark eyes.

Jesse has never been a "joiner." He works best alone, in the spotlight, the center of attention. It's not a flaw, in his mind. It's proof, as if he needed any more, that he was born to do this. He's a star—or will be, soon enough.

So this preoccupation with Rachel, a girl he hasn't even been introduced to yet, makes no sense. It's confusing. _She_ is confusing. How can such a small girl capture his attention when she isn't even doing anything? Is it something natural within her, some sort of innate gift? Might he have it, too, and not know it? Does she know she does this to people?

"When will I get to start rehearsing my scene?" Jesse asks, hoping the question is innocent enough. Rolf has more than one scene, yes, but his big moment is the duet.

"Shelby makes the schedule," Schuester says with a shrug. "She might continue this afternoon working on the abbey scenes. Or she might switch it up, to give the girls a chance to practice swapping characters. It's impossible to say."

"I want to show her what I can do," Jesse says, and it's true. He does. But he also wants a chance at that scene with Rachel. He hasn't heard her sing solo yet, and he's beyond curious about her voice. Will it be clear or fuzzy? Strong or tremulous? Soprano or alto?

They finish lunch and Schuester designates two boys to quickly wash dishes w before they all head back to the stage.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'm excited to see these two try their first scene together! Is that weird? It's probably weird. What's possibly weirder: I actually tried kneeling on a broom for a while to see what it felt like. It's apparently a pretty common means of discipline. Of course, I have no idea if I was doing it right; there are various ways you can interpret the phrase "kneeling on a broom." If I didn't do it right, I apologize; I'm not terribly knowledgeable when it comes to corporal punishment. ;-) _

_Leave us some love!  
><em>


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